Heat Seeking
by White Mizerable
Summary: America is not a good place for gods, but they're wandering the land anyway. Arthur has been stranded there for many years, and it has taken its toll on him, but when he finds himself the target of Alfred, a much more modern god, he might just have a plan. American Gods AU. Rated M for dirty language and dirty sex.


Every morning at eight fourteen, sharp, the little bells over the door of the café would tinkle a cheerful welcome. The man who had just pushed through the door would smile faintly up at them, the crows feet beside his eyes crinkling, before making his way leisurely over to the tiny table set beside the front window. He would lay his newspaper out on the table, smooth out the non-existent wrinkles in his pants, and run his fingers through the mess of graying hair on his head, which only ever served to make it worse. The waitresses had quickly learned to allow him a few minutes to settle in, as approaching him before he was ready would result in some snapped words, but once those minutes were up, the man was nothing short of perfectly charming. His bright green eyes and secretive, shy little smile could draw conversation out of anyone, and many of the staff had accidentally let slip a secret or two in his presence. Still, none of them had ever learned his name. It never seemed to matter. He just appeared to be such a kind, quiet older man.

He would always order the same thing- a cup of tea and a small blueberry scone- and despite the fact that the café was more of a coffee house, and tea wasn't exactly their thing, the man was a good, regular customer and there was no harm in buying a little box of tea bags for him. It was never very expensive tea, but the man didn't complain.

That morning, though, was different. One of the little bells had broken the day before, so when the man walked through the door at several seconds past eight fifteen, the chime that welcomed him was distinctly less cheery. The man was not carrying his usual newspaper, but instead a very wet black umbrella. The umbrella did not seem to have done its job properly- the man was dripping with rainwater from the thundering storm outside, his normal tangled mess of hair flattened to his head, droplets of water rolling down off the end of his short nose. His shoes squeaked and squashed as he walked across the linoleum floor towards his usual table. The chair screeched as he sat down, his umbrella propped up against the windowsill beside him.

The waitresses behind the counter exchanged confused looks. The storm outside was pounding away with a ferocity that almost seemed unnatural, and so far there had been no customers willing to venture out to their little café. None, except for the man by the window. A rolling crash of thunder shook the building to its foundation. The waitresses looked around at each other again, and a very quiet argument over who was going to have to actually do some work and attend to the man. The youngest of them lost quite spectacularly, and with a not so muted grunt of annoyance and a gesture of her middle finger, she slowly made her way over to the only occupied table.

"Good morning, sir," she said as cheerily as possible, right as another roll of thunder broke through the air. "What will you be having this morning? The usual?"

For several long moments, the man said nothing. The only sounds that could be heard were the heavy drumming of the rain, and the melodic drip, drip, drip of the water falling from his skin and clothing. Then, finally, he raised his head, and smiled. Lightning flashed through the window, illuminating those green eyes and suddenly less gray hair. He looked far younger than he had in all those months that he had been coming to the little café, far stronger, far bolder. The waitress took a step back in shock. He looked… incredibly happy. Too happy.

"The usual, yes," he said, his voice as charming as ever, his smile unfading. "But I would also like a cup of your strongest coffee, if you would. Keep it black and scalding." A drop of water rolled down from one wet blonde curl of hair, down into the crease of his lips.

"Coffee," the waitress repeated hesitantly. A sense of unease, a feeling growing into what was almost fear, settled over her. Her fingers trembled where they curled around her notepad. "Coffee, tea, and a blueberry scone. Yeah. Of course." She glanced down at the table, then over at the man again, and, catching sight of that unwavering smile, immediately turned and stared out the window at the rain. "Anything else?"

The man chuckled. It was a strange sound, far too young and haughty for the gentle older man she had come to expect. "No, that will be all, thank you."

His voice was a dismissal, and the waitress took it gladly, hurrying away to the safety behind the counter. She was surrounded by the other staff members, demanding to know what had happened, why she looked so pale, had he said something improper? She shook her head and mumbled, "Coffee, tea, and a blueberry scone. That's all."

At the table by the window, the man settled himself into his chair, folding his hands primly before him. His gaze did not waver from the door of the café. Another boom of thunder rolled overhead, and his smile didn't fade. Lightning flashed, and he didn't blink. His muscles didn't twitch, his foot didn't tap. He stayed perfectly still and stared at the door.

He was still sitting that way when another waitress, this one much older and showing her age clearly, strode over and shoved his order down onto the table. "I don't know what you said to Caitlin," she snapped, "but we don't take too kindly to that kind of stuff around here, sir. If you try something like that again, I'll throw you out myself." The man said nothing, didn't even flinch at her words, and she turned and stalked away with another warning glare.

The man sat there at his table, unmoving, for almost ten minutes. The staff eyed him suspiciously, and maybe a little nervously, because though he did look oddly younger, he was still getting up there in his years, and who knew when he might just stop breathing. A man dying in the middle of their café would not be good for business. One of the older waitresses was just about to make her way over to check on him when the front door slammed open. The bells weren't even given a chance to chime before they were smashed against the wall. The man at the table smiled wider.

The newcomer was another man, but this one was much younger. He was dressed like a soldier, in a thin white t-shirt, camouflaged pants, and heavy combat boots. Silver dog tags glinted against his soaked chest. Water ran in rivers down his muscular frame. Up on his handsome face sat thick, dark sunglasses, ones that he should never have been able to see through, especially on such a rainy day, and below them, his lips were turned up into a wild, manic grin.

"So you've finally made it," the man at the table said pleasantly, unfolding his hands in order to cup his chin with them. "Took you long enough."

The newcomer just laughed, a deep, blaring sound, and shook his head, sending drops of water flying out across the room. "You're a harder guy to find than I'd thought, I'll give you credit for that." In a few heavy strides, he was standing beside the older man's table, pulling back the empty chair and throwing himself down into it. Lightning flashed outside, casting brilliant light over their profiles.

The waitresses behind the counter were so entranced by the scene unfolding before them that none of them were even pretending to work. Even the cook was leaning out of his little window to get a better look. Theirs was a quiet, out of the way town, and whatever was going on between these two men was definitely something outside the usual.

"You've been hunting me for a while now." The older man kept smiling. With one deft movement, he pushed the mug of coffee across the table towards his companion. There was still steam rising from it despite how long it had been left untouched.

"Aw, you bought me a drink! How thoughtful." The newcomer's teeth were straight and bone white, glinting in the flashes of lightning. He reached out to grab the handle of the mug and lifted it to his lips, downing the hot liquid in a few swallows. The mug creaked in his grip. Something cracked loudly when he slammed it back down on the table, and the waitresses winced where they were still watching. Someone was going to have to clean that up later.

The older man said nothing, just continued to smile as if this was all the most wonderful thing to have ever happened to him. The newcomer laughed again. "So, I'm guessing you want to know why I've been chasing you around."

"Nonsense." The older man shook his head and raised his own mug of tea. He drank much slower than his companion, much more gracefully. "I know exactly why you're hunting me. I fear I may not give you the ending you were hoping for, however."

"Oh?" The newcomer's dark glasses shielded too much of his brow to see his expression, but it was obvious from his voice that he was somewhat taken aback but still amused by the answer. "You think I don't have what it takes to finish this? You're underestimating me, and that's always a bad idea."

The waitresses shot each other wary looks. There was something very odd about these two men, they thought. Hunting other people was not exactly a common topic of conversation over breakfast in their town. The cook muttered something about maybe calling the police, but he didn't move away from his window. Lightning flashed again, casting stark shadows across the café.

"You're too young to understand how this works," the older man was saying, lifting his mug once again. "You still think it's simple and without consequence."

The newcomer snorted. "But it is simple! I mean, look at it. I come after you, we do this little song and dance, blah blah, I get bored, and bam. That's it. The end. Nothing to it. Easy as pie." He snapped his fingers. It sounded like a gunshot.

"Ah, but see, that's just your youthful ignorance speaking." The older man was beginning to break into his scone, calmly popping small pieces of the pastry into his mouth and pausing in his speech to chew them. "You've started hunting me, my boy. The hunt is an old and sacred thing. There are rules. It doesn't simply begin with no reason, nor does it end on command."

"Rules, shmules." The newcomer's grin curled up into smirk. He passed his broken mug back and forth between his hands. "I don't play by your rules, old timer. You don't even belong here anymore. No one cares about you. No one would notice if you disappeared."

This was starting to sound bad, the waitresses whispered among themselves. The cook muttered about calling the police again, and one of the younger waitresses fished her cell phone out of her pocket. No one dialed any numbers or moved any further, still staring at the only occupied table.

The older man shrugged. His smile hadn't even flickered. "Someone must care about me. I'm still here, aren't I?" Almost secretively, as though he was going to reveal something that no one else in the café should hear, he leaned forward across the table and stage-whispered, "Besides, you're the one who started this hunt. You're the one hunting me." Thunder boomed directly overhead. The whole building shook.

"What?" The newcomer's smirk immediately fell into a confused frown, and he leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, obviously I'm the one- Oh." And he grinned, bone-white teeth shining. "Oh, I get it. So that's why you've been so feisty. I was wondering how an old guy like you could have so much energy. Guess I made a little mistake there, huh?"

"More than a little one." The older man reached up to run his fingers through his tangles of blonde hair that had been gray the day before. "You say that no one believes in me anymore. It's true, very few follow the old ways. But the hunt- this kind of hunt, this is mine. Anyone who partakes in it is worshipping me, whether they realize it or not." His smile widened. "And now, so are you. I won't be the easy target you were expecting."

The newcomer barked out a laugh. Lightning flared over his profile, and in that brief moment, a spark of blue flashed behind his sunglasses. "My bad. I'll keep that in mind while I take you down." He stretched out his arms, muscles flexing, and pulled himself to his feet. "Let's do this, old man."

The older man only shook his head, his smile fond. "You still don't get it, do you?" He folded his hands on the table before him. "You still haven't caught me yet."

Thunder roared. For one split second, the lights inside the café flickered off, and when they came back to life, there was no sign of the older man except for a puddle of water, a half-eaten blueberry scone, and a very wet black umbrella leaning against the wall. The waitresses gasped. The cook dropped his spatula with a clatter. The newcomer didn't move, just slowly grinned, staring through his glasses at the now empty seat, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his camo pants. "Well, I'll be damned," he said lightly. He stood there for a few moments, simply grinning, before pulling out one of his hands to run it through his rain-damp hair, then down to one side of his glasses. In one quick movement, he pulled them off and turned to look at the gathered staff of the café. His eyes were nuclear blue, burning brighter than it should have been possible.

"What are you?" the cook demanded.

The newcomer barely glanced at him, just kept grinning with those bone-white teeth. "I didn't bring any cash with me, sorry. My friend was going to pay. Good coffee though." Before any of the staff could move, he was slamming the front door open, sending the little bells tumbling to the floor, and vanishing into the thunderstorm.

Finally, the cook breathed out a long sigh of relief, and looked out at all the waitresses gathered behind the counter. "Do you still think I should call the police?"

* * *

The apartment building that the newcomer, generally known as Alfred to those who didn't know his true name, stood before was small, run-down, and looked somewhat out of place with its flat concrete walls in the old wood and brick town. He grinned and smoothed back the hair that hung down over his sunglasses, uncaring of the way it would stick to his head in the rain that continued to pour down from above. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he began to make his way noisily up the stairs, feet pounding away at the rusty metal. There was no point in trying to be sneaky, after all. When he reached the second story, he turned off the staircase and strode down the covered porch area until he came to the door labeled thirty-three. He kicked at it once, hard enough to make the hinges creak, and called out, "Knock knock!" Thunder nearly drowned out his voice.

Nothing happened for a minute or two. Alfred flipped his hair back out of his face again. Then the lock on the other side of the door clicked open, and slowly, the door itself swung inwards. The hallway was dark and empty of any sort of presence, though it was decorated with an odd assortment of knickknacks, ranging from carved walking sticks to clay pots to various kinds of antlers. Alfred wandered down the hall, and paused briefly to examine an old hunting rifle hung up at eye level. He snorted at the crude technology. Weapons really had been weak before he came around.

"Old man," he drawled as stepped through one doorway, into what must have been the kitchen. "Old man, where are you?" That room was empty. The only sounds to be heard were the thuds of his own boots, the hum of the refrigerator, and the rumbling thunder outside. He made his way into the next room, a small living room with an even smaller television, and peered around through the darkness illuminated only by flashes of lightning. There was no one in there, either, and Alfred felt the familiar bubble of annoyance building up in his chest.

"Are you getting tired of the hunt, boy?" The voice came from every doorway, from every window, from the floor itself. "I thought you were going to catch me."

Alfred chuckled between clenched teeth. "I wasn't designed for specifics, old timer."

The voice laughed. "Don't get upset. The hunt is almost over, can't you see? You're almost there. Come on, boy, come and find me, and we can begin."

The last words were soft, almost breathy, and the annoyance in Alfred's chest began to slip down, down. "Begin what?" he asked. There was no answer, but he already knew, and he wanted it. He left the living room and went quickly across the hall again, barely glancing around to see if his target was there, and threw open another door. The bathroom. Empty. There were only two more doors to check. He swung himself around as lightning flashed through the small window at the end of the hallway. The first door was a closet. Nothing there but some jackets and cleaning supplies. He slammed it shut with enough force to snap one of the hinges and strode to the last door.

But he didn't open it immediately. Alfred stood there for a moment or two, looking at the old, scratched wood. He could feel a presence behind the door that hadn't been there seconds earlier. There was a word carved in the wood in some language he could not recognize. He didn't care. He wasn't even sure why he had stopped. He was Alfred- he did not stop, not until he had finished what he'd come to do. He lifted one heavy boot-clad foot and kicked the door off its hinges. It tumbled into the room- the bedroom- with less of crash than he'd hoped. Carpets always muted his small explosions.

"Impatient, aren't we?" There was the man, sitting primly on one side of his well-made bed. Alfred's eyes trailed from the curve of his back down to where the thick blankets sank beneath his rear and thighs. He licked his lips but restrained himself for the moment, instead allowing his gaze to travel around the bedroom. It was decorated much like the rest of the apartment. Hanging over the headboard of the bed was a pair of massive, pale antlers, ones that looked far too large to have ever belonged to a deer or moose. Alfred raised his eyebrows behind his sunglasses.

"Interesting décor you've got here."

The man shook his head, smiling. "When you've been around as long as I have, you tend to collect some curious things." He lifted himself up off the bed in one fluid motion. His hair looked dryer now, messy and somewhat curled and a very dirty blond. His eyes were deep moss green. He stepped forward, and stepped again, his footsteps silent in the carpet, until his was standing directly before Alfred. "Well?" he asked, voice barely a whisper. "You've caught me. The hunt is almost over. Are you going to end it, boy?"

Alfred tilted his head to the side and grinned. "I don't know. Are there rules about this part, too?" Thunder rumbled overhead.

"Of course. There are always rules." The man tilted his head as well. His eyes glittered with lightning.

"Hmm." Alfred reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, and he could almost see the radioactive blue of his gaze reflecting off the man's face. He dropped the glasses carelessly to the ground. "But what if I've decided that I would rather fuck you and then kill you?"

The man's smile grew. "Oh, that can be arranged." His long fingers slid along the bottom hem of his ugly plaid shirt. "There are many different kinds of rules in the hunt."

"Good." Before the man could react, Alfred shoved him backwards, sending him toppling back onto the bed. Alfred grinned crookedly down at him. "Now, before I get started, what am I supposed to call you? And you can be damn sure I won't be saying your real name, so don't even try that."

"You intend to call my name in the heat of passion? I didn't realize you were such a romantic, boy." But the man hadn't moved from his sprawled position, barely shifting to spread his legs wider. His smile was full of sharp, crooked teeth. "Some people call me Arthur. If you need a name, use that one."

"Arthur." Alfred rolled the name over his tongue as he stepped forward to fit himself between Arthur's thighs. "Fitting, I guess. You can call me Alfred for now." Heat was pooling inside of him. His fuse had been lit long ago, and it was nearly to its end. He pressed down on Arthur's chest with one hand, not allowing him to move an inch, and with the other began to tear at the buttons of Arthur's loose jeans.

Arthur seemed to have no problem at all with the position. In fact, he was still smiling, though it had been redirected towards where Alfred had just ripped off the buttons of his jeans and was halfway between opening the zipper and just yanking the jeans off his legs. "Patience is a virtue, boy, or so they say," he said, his amusement obvious in the words. He leaned his head back against the blankets and stared up at the ceiling, perfectly relaxed.

"Don't give me that shit," Alfred grunted, pulling the jeans down past Arthur's knees, where they kept getting stuck on his thick socks. He tugged the thick wool off and went back to work. Every inch of skin that he uncovered was very pale, but when his gaze strayed, either to Arthur's face or the denim of his jeans or the cotton underwear or his own hands, the skin seemed to grow darker, tanner. It was cool beneath his hands. He chuckled lowly. Everything was cool compared to him. Pulling the jeans the rest of the way off, Alfred paused to look over the body now revealed to him. Arthur was skinny but strong, with lithe legs and bony hips and curls of dirty blonde hair above his half-hard cock, and he no longer looked anything at all like the older man Alfred had first started chasing.

Humming lightly, Arthur lifted his head as far as he could without struggling against the hand on his chest. His lips curled even further upwards. "You like what you see?"

Alfred narrowed his eyes. He could feel them burning against his own skin. "You're a crazy little thing. It's hard to believe you're so old when you're acting like this." With his free hand he grabbed at Arthur's cock, watching in amusement as Arthur's body tensed at the heat of his touch. "What are you playing at, huh?" Thunder rumbled, quieter than before.

Arthur just laughed, and suddenly Alfred found himself sprawled on his back on the bed, staring up at Arthur straddling his stomach. The front of his plaid shirt was burned in the shape of Alfred's large hand. It smoked lazily around the edges and smelled of burnt skin. Smiling in a way that could only be described as predatorily, Arthur leaned down until his lips were only centimeters away from Alfred's open mouth, and breathed out a breath of fresh, clean air. "Were you really expecting me to lay there and take it?"

Alfred grinned up at him, spreading his hands in surrender. "How am I supposed to expect anything from you? You keep doing all these crazy things."

"Can't keep up?" Arthur asked, and grabbed Alfred's cock through his camo pants.

A wheeze escaped Alfred's lips. He grasped Arthur's sides, ignoring the smoke that began to seep through his fingers, and flipped their positions once again. Before Arthur could fight back, Alfred grabbed a handful of his messy hair and pulled it harshly sideways, forcing his head down onto the blankets. Lightning flashed through the sole window in the room. Arthur's eyes nearly glowed as they looked up at him, but Alfred ignored them, too, leaning forward so that Arthur would be looking into the full force of his own burning stare. "You've fucked around with me for long enough, you old piece of shit. It's my turn now." He yanked at Arthur's hair again, searched for a wince and found it, and grinned down with his teeth like bones. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to move, no matter what you are. I'm going to fuck you until you can't say anything but my name, my real name, and then I'm going to break you. I'll burn away every fucking bone in your body."

Arthur looked at him and laughed. "Don't make promises you can't keep, boy." He lifted one hand and ran it slowly across Alfred's face. His fingers were as cool as the rest of him. His nails were sharp as knives. Alfred quickly recoiled, but he could feel the small trails of blood leaking down his cheek. Arthur was still smiling. "Come on, then. Do it." Without waiting for any kind of response, Arthur surged upwards and caught Alfred's mouth. Alfred barely waited an instant before pushing back, shoving Arthur down into the bed.

It wasn't a kiss. There was too much teeth and tongue for it to be a kiss. They devoured each other. Alfred refused to let Arthur lift his head from the blankets, digging his fingers into Arthur's scalp and holding him in submission. He was not about to let Arthur steal control again. But his own pants, loose as they were, were becoming far too tight to be comfortable, and so reluctantly he let go of Arthur's hair with one hand, only one, and reached down to tear at the buttons and zipper. The pants slid down below his cock quickly enough. That was all he needed. The moment his cock was free, he tore his mouth away from Arthur's, paying no attention to the string of saliva that still connected him.

"I," he said, breathing hot, heavy air down upon Arthur's swollen lips, "am going to fuck you. I'm going to fuck you so hard." Thunder roared. "So hard." Arthur stared up at him with forest green eyes and said nothing, but Alfred could still see that hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Alfred growled low in his throat, the rumble of a machine coming to life, and shoved his lips back down over that stupid smile, forcing the noxious fumes of his breath into Arthur's pure, fresh mouth. He had been playing these games for too long. He was tired of them. He was not going to wait anymore.

Alfred did not move his head away from where he was suckling hungrily at Arthur's mouth, but his hands clawed their way down to the underside of Arthur's thighs. He could feel Arthur's cock against his abdomen, hard and cool, and he ignored it in favor of grabbing the thighs that framed it and lifting them high into the air, then shoving them back down onto one side, finally pulling away from Arthur's mouth long enough to force him onto his stomach. "You're mine," he hissed against those messy curls of hair.

Lightning flared outside the window, illuminating the bedroom, casting a neon light over Arthur's one visible eye, over the feral grin on his bruised mouth. "I belong to no one, you foolish child."

Alfred didn't reply. He grit his teeth, feeling them creak at the force, and dug his fingernails deep into Arthur's thighs. They parted with ease. Alfred barely glanced down at the skin presented to him before thrusting forward, inside. He didn't need to look. Arthur was all too willing to accept him. Still, the earthy coolness he found inside kept him from thrusting again even as thunder rolled overhead, louder than he had ever heard. He shivered, once.

Beneath him, Arthur laughed into the blankets. "Come on, boy. I thought you promised to fuck me until I couldn't walk?" His hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists and his voice was stretched and strained, but there were no pleas in his words.

"I am," Alfred growled. He could feel it- the fire inside him, burning brighter and brighter and ready to explode- and he let it rush through him as he grabbed Arthur's hips and thrust forward again and again, pressing in with enough power to slam the headboard against the wall with every movement. Arthur grunted below him, his hands scrambling against the bed and his lips curled upwards. That was not what Alfred wanted. He heaved Arthur's hips up with one hand, rising to his knees as well, and bent down over that slender back to dig the heel of his other hand into the back of Arthur's head. Arthur's moans were hot and fast against the pillow where his face was pressed. His back arched, his shoulder blades protruded outwards, and Alfred shoved his face down harder.

"You feel that?" Alfred panted through his own strain and sweat, his voice drowning in the thunder. "You feel that, you son of a bitch? That's me, fucking your brains out. Bet you've never been taken like this, huh? Bet it's never been as good as me." He shoved forward again, reveling in the feeling of Arthur tight and needy around him. "No one will ever be as good as me."

"Hah." Arthur's voice was harsh as he twisted away from Alfred's grasp on the back of his head, his neck turned to look back over his shoulder from where he was pressed against the blankets. His crooked teeth shone in the darkness before the lightning. "You're only a child. There will always be something better than you." He groaned again as he was pushed forward by the next thrust.

Alfred snarled. Without stopping his powerful thrusts, he grabbed Arthur by the throat and heaved him up and back until Arthur was nearly straddling his legs, too overbalanced to keep himself kneeling, held up only by the strength of Alfred's grip on his neck. "I am the best there is," Alfred hissed into one flushed ear. He could see the glow of own nuclear blue eyes on the back of Arthur's head. "There will never be anyone stronger than me." Thrusting was more difficult in this position, but he did not slow down or reign in his power. He shoved in and out of Arthur's body, in and out. He could smell the sweet stench of burning flesh.

Arthur choked and laughed, high and broken. "Such a child." He shoved his hips down against Alfred, forcing him up and in, and groaned out in pleasure. "Just because they fear you now… You truly believe they always will." His neck was red, blackening beneath Alfred's hand. "Now fuck me, boy. You promised that you would fuck me hard."

And Alfred did. He thrust up hard and fast, pummeling away, his hips rocking at a pace that even he could barely keep. Burning sweat dripped into his eyes. He was blinded by lightning that sent sparks of gold and green shimmering across Arthur's body, deafened by thunder that chorused with Arthur's moans. Arthur was moving against him, breaking Alfred's rapid pace with an equally rapid but different one of his own. Alfred growled and groaned and clenched his teeth tight and clenched Arthur's neck tighter. His dog tags smacked against Arthur's back with each thrust. The storm outside roared along with them.

They came, though not together- Alfred with a cry that sounded like an explosion, Arthur with a shaky hypnotic spasm and a smile on his lips. Neither collapsed from where they both knelt on the bed. Faint rays of sunlight filtered through the sole window as the clouds outside began to break. Only once Alfred could feel his skin again, not just the burn, did he release Arthur's neck and allow him to fall forward into the blankets. He kept on kneeling there for a long moment, breathing, then stepped back off the bed onto the carpeted floor and pulled his camo pants back up to where they belonged.

"Well," said Arthur, stretching out his arms and seemingly ignorant of the cum dripping out from between his legs, "I will admit, boy, you are not half bad in bed when you put your mind to it." He sprawled out lazily, looking utterly content with the world. There was a charred, blistering handprint on his neck.

"Not half bad?" Alfred echoed, grinning. He lazily buttoned up his pants, then turned to look around on the floor for his sunglasses. "You're lying to yourself if you think you've had it better than that." Once he found them, he wiped the lenses off on his shirt and slid them back onto his face. His eyes weren't burning nearly as painfully anymore.

Arthur shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I've had some very nice rendezvous during my time."

"Yeah, well, whatever." Alfred rolled his shoulders, shaking out any of the leftover tension, before crossing his arms over his chest. "I guess that's out of the way now. Time for part two."

"Part two," Arthur repeated lazily, not moving from his relaxed position on the bed.

"Yep." Alfred's hands slipped into the deep pockets of his pants and reemerged with the two semi-automatic pistols he kept hidden there. He was never unarmed, no matter how he looked. Two clicks and the safeties were off. He raised both guns and pointed them down at Arthur's spread form. "You remember, right? The whole reason I came here in the first place?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and stretched his arms back over his head, his hands disappearing underneath the pillows at the top of the bed. "Of course I remember. I'm not senile, boy, no matter what you might think." His eyes traced along the barrel of one of the guns. "However, I could have sworn that you told me you would burn me to death, not shoot me. Correct me if I'm wrong."

Alfred shrugged one shoulder uncaringly. "That was the original plan, yeah. But then you ended up being a lot feistier than I was expecting, and I doubt you'd just sit there while I held you down and melted you away." He grinned. "That's okay though. I don't get to use these babies a lot, either, so it's still fun for me." He leveled the guns to point directly between Arthur's eyes. "Ready?"

"Not really." Arthur pulled his hands back up from behind his pillows, and this time they weren't empty. Held between his fingers was a long-barreled hunting rifle, pointed right at Alfred's face. He clicked the safety back and smiled up at Alfred. "I told you before that I wouldn't be the easy target you wanted."

"Ah," said Alfred. His grin wavered and fell away, then returned with even more manic power than before. "So you've been planning this all out from the beginning, huh?"

"Oh, of course." Arthur's finger didn't so much as twitch on the trigger. "There are rules to hunting, you know." His easy smile remained as his eyes flickered over to the empty doorway and broken door. "Now, I would suggest you put your fancy little guns away and leave my house before anything drastic is forced to happen. You may be a good shot, and I won't deny that you're a powerful thing, but I have many years more practice in matters like this. I would hate to have to kill a child like you before you have the chance to reach your true potential."

Alfred didn't say anything for a few seconds, just stared at Arthur through his dark glasses, then laughed and clicked the safeties of his guns back on. "Alright, I admit it. You got me this time." He slid both pistols back into his pockets and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Your little games worked out for you." He glanced from Arthur's face to the rifle to Arthur's face again, and began to walk backwards towards the doorway. Only once he was standing in it, his shoulder almost too broad for the narrow opening, did he lower his hands, his grin narrowing to a sneer. "Don't think this is the last time you'll see me. No one can defeat me forever, and next time, I won't play along with your rules."

Arthur only smiled at him, and Alfred turned away and strode down the hallway and out into the open, sunny air.

* * *

Arthur didn't move from his place on his bed until he felt Alfred leave the town. With a breathy sigh, he clicked the safety back on and laid his rifle down on the blankets beside him, and rolled over until he could place his feet down on the carpeted floor. It was old, but soft beneath his toes. He'd always been fond of it. He lifted himself to his feet and wiggled his feet in the carpet for a few moments, just enjoying the sensation, before stretching out his arms leaning backwards until his back popped. The ache Alfred had left there sent a thrilled rush through him. He very rarely allowed himself such liaisons with others like him, but each one left him feeling so much more alive, especially when they played so well by his own rules.

Whistling an old tune to himself, Arthur stretched again and made his way leisurely to the bathroom, stepping around the broken door Alfred had left in the middle of his bedroom floor. He would need to get that fixed. As he passed the hall closet, he made a quick note that he would have to replace the broken hinge on there as well. Alfred was certainly a destructive one, not that Arthur was too surprised.

Alfred. Arthur smiled to himself as he thought of the man. Alfred would be back, of course- threats from those like him were always to be taken seriously- and Arthur would be more than ready for him. Arthur was always ready for people like him, because as much as they swore to never play by Arthur's rules again, well, Arthur was the rules. He eyed his reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink. Pale skin darkened by a slight tan, curling dirty blonde hair, lips upturned in a secretive smile, strong shoulders and limbs, where there had once been wrinkles and gray hairs and a bending spine. He thought of the mighty antlers mounted in his bedroom and smiled and turned on the faucet.

Perhaps, Arthur thought as he dipped his hands into the cold water pooling in the sink, it was about time he set out on a hunt of his own. It had been ever so long since he'd last called the hounds.

* * *

A/N- Well look at that, something new! And an American Gods AU at that. I enjoyed writing this, though it's probably not up to my usual standards, if I have any at all.

Anyway, no, I'm not going to tell you which gods Alfred and Arthur are. All I'll say is that Alfred is modern, and Arthur is very old, and that's not much of a clue because I said all that in the story. But I hope you have some ideas, and I hope you'll tell me what those might be in the reviews, should I get any. I might even reply if you get them right.

Bigger note- I'm sure you've all heard about the MA-rated purge here on FF. Nearly all my writing fits in that category, so I know it'll get deleted sooner or later, and this fic might make it sooner. Oops, I don't care. I'll be uploading everything on my LJ (Arakni666) and AO3 (White_Mizerable), and you can always check me out on Tumblr (arakni66) if you're curious. Should my account on here go down, I hope to see in one of those other places. Toodles, my dear readers.


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